She Made My Bed
by SecretAgentSyd
Summary: I love little things she does the way she cooks breakfast and brings in the paper and makes my bed.


For the "Bed Making" challenge.

**She Made My Bed  
**  
by **Puggy**

**Rating: **PG

**Summary: **I wrote this as a challenge--"write a 'bed making' fic"--and it just sorta turned out this way. It's just a big lump o' fluff. :)

- - - - - - - - -

She made my bed.

First time at my apartment, and she makes the bed. Really, though, it doesn't surprise me. She's always seemed like the type of girl that would do this. I mean, she tucked in the sheets and fluffed all the pillows, all within the time it took me to take a shower--which isn't very long.

I smile, somehow amused, at the state of my bed, then make my way towards the kitchen.

She's cooking breakfast.

On the weekends, we usually wake up too late to eat breakfast together, and on the weekdays, we never have time for a real breakfast--just a granola bar and some coffee--so breakfast is a nice surprise. I know she can cook--she'd made me dinner a few times over at her place--but this morning's meal smells especially wonderful. I can hear the bacon sizzling in the pan, smell the strawberry jelly she spread across the toast, and I can see her, carefully bent over the stove, managing the eggs.

I creep quietly into the kitchen, forming my plan of attack. She's ticklish at the waist, right above the hips, and that area looks quite vulnerable right now. Splaying out my fingers, I inch towards her, stifling my laughter.

She's going to kill me for this.

When I'm finally within range, I reach out and gently poke her sides. She screams, a high-pitched, funny little sound, and she jumps a little, too. I can't help cracking up as I wrap my arms around her.

"I get you everytime," I whisper into her ear.

When her heartbeat returns to its normal pace, she begins to turn to face me. I can see her expression already, though, simply because I've seen it so many times before. It's one-half death stare, one-fourth exasperation, and one-fourth amusement.

"You can be such a child sometimes," she attempts to chide me, but the happiness in her voice betrays her. She kisses me on the lips quickly, then returns her attention to her cooking.

"So you've told me," I reply, nuzzling her neck. I plant a gentle kiss there, then lean over her and peer at this morning's breakfast. "Scrambled eggs!" I exclaim, studying the pan. "But how'd you know?"

She shakes her head resumes her scrambling. "You told me last week! Don't you remember?"

I couldn't remember--it was a week ago!--but what did it matter? She absorbs trivial facts like a sponge does water. I feel inadequate, really, because for the life of me, I can't remember if she prefers scrambled or fried, or if she's ever even told me.

"Oh, right," I lie. "Well, they look delicious. Is there anything I can do to help?"

She turns and waves a metal spatula in my face. "You can start by getting out of the kitchen," she tells me, saying it as politely as one can say such a thing. Teasingly, she adds, "Don't you know too many cooks spoil the food?"

"All right, all right," I reply, and I exit the kitchen, but not before kissing her cheek.

As I meander to the small table out in the nook, I see that she's already gotten the paper. And there's a plate of toast in the middle of the table, with extra strawberry jelly sitting nearby. There's also a pitcher of orange juice and two glasses, as well as two plates, each with a fork and knife set beside them. And next to my plate, there's a bottle of ketchup.

I eat my eggs with ketchup.

"I can't believe you did all this," I call to her, picking up the newspaper and flipping to the sports section. We hadn't gotten a chance to catch the hockey game last night on TV, even though we had had every intention of doing so. "Breakfast... the paper..."--I soon discover that the Kings lost--"..and you even made my bed."

Maybe she somehow hears a hint of disappointment or sorrow in my voice, because as I glance up from my reading, I see that she's stopped her scrambling and is looking at me. A worried expression takes over her face. "I hope that's all right," she says softly, "some people have a particular way about making beds, and I didn't know if--"

I smile up at her and wave it off. "Half the time my bed doesn't even _get_ made," I tell her, "I mean, you saw it last night. I love it that you did that."

"Really? You're sure?"

"Absolutely," I assure her.

She blushes, grins warmly at me, then resumes making the eggs.

And I can't tear my eyes away from her.

I watch as she turns the burner off, then lifts the frying pan from the stove. She takes the spatula and scrapes out every bit of egg into a glass bowl, then carefully places the pan and spatula into the sink. The eggs she puts off to the side, and then she attends to the bacon, which is slowly beginning to cease its sizzling. She turns that burner off, too, before plucking out each strip of the meat. One by one, she places the slices onto a glass plate, then surveys her work. Seeming satisfied, she lifts the bacon plate and grabs the egg bowl, then joins me at the table.

She places the rest of breakfast onto the table and motions to all the food, as if to say, "Dig in!" Although... well, "Dig in!" isn't an expression I can really hear her saying.

I grab three slices of bacon and set them on my plate, then pick up the bowl of eggs. I tilt it towards her and ask, "Want any?"

"I'd love some," she replies, using her fork to pile less than half of them onto her plate, while I mentally log that she'll eat scrambled eggs. She reaches a bit and grabs the pitcher, then takes my glass, filling it almost to the rim. She does the first with her own cup, then takes a small sip.

I always love the lipstick stain that she leaves on glasses. The color--raspberry glace, they call it--is a reddish pink with a hint of purple, and it's her favorite shade; she wears it all the time. I love the way she puts it on, too. First the upper lip, then the lower, then she presses them together. I've never seen anyone put lipstick on her upper lip first.

And I love the way she eats her food carefully, so to be sure as to not make a mess. She takes small forkfuls of eggs, tiny bites of bacon, and nibbles of toast. She keeps a napkin in her lap, and after every bite, she lightly dabs around her mouth.

I love how she always smells like fresh flowers, and how she's always smiling brightly. And I love the way she laughs, covering her mouth, embarrassed by the infectious giggles she easily emits. I love the way she kisses me, softly, sweetly, innocently, as if each kiss were our first.

And I love how she remembers every little thing, as if it were important as memorizing facts for her job. I love little things she does; the way she cooks breakfast and brings in the paper and makes my bed.

"Hey..." I say quietly, breaking the peaceful silence. I stare up from my eggs and ketchup concoction.

"Hmm?" she returns, glancing up from her own meal, her forked balancing between her fingers.

For a moment, I just stare at her, hesitant to say anything. It's still hard, sometimes, for me to believe that I found her, and that she's crazy enough to have stuck by me for this long.

"You wanted to say something?" she inquires, smirking coyly and averting her eyes all at once.

"Lauren... I love you."

Well, that's it; I can't take it back now. She seems to mull this admission over for a moment, which is frightening, frankly. I think my heart's stopped beating, and it's getting pretty stuffy in the nook. I'm just about ready to dart out of here--

"I love you, too, Michael."

I can feel the big, goofy grin spreading across my face, but there's nothing to do about it. She blushes slightly, then stands up from her chair. I look at her, puzzled, but then I see that glint in her eyes. I know what she's thinking.

She clutches my hand and pulls me out my chair, and she begins to laugh, a strange excitement consuming us both. Still holding my hand--the other covers her mouth as she tries to hold in the giggles--she skips towards the bedroom. When we get to the door, I wrap my arms around her waist.

"We're going to mess up the bed, you know," I joke, kissing her forehead. I move down her face slowly, placing kisses on her nose, her eyes, and each of her cheeks.

"Hm, I never thought about that," she says, pulling away before I can kiss her lips, "but you're right. I did such a lovely job with the bed, it _would_ be a shame to--"

But I don't give her the chance to finish, and together we fall onto the bed, neither one of us caring one bit about the mess we'll certainly make.

- - - - - - - - -

Comments, reviews, etc., are welcomed! ;)


End file.
